Street. “Where’s your father?”
“At the Roma.”
“You had a fight?”
“Argument.”
“You’re not going to the mountains?” There was concern in her voice.
“You knew about that?”
We were still talking through the screen door.
“He said he was going to ask you.”
“He asked. I said, no chance.”
I stepped into the hot, small parlor that was overpowered by the spices from the kitchen. That parlor! It was hellishly hot. A morgue. Walls bedecked with pictures of the dead, aunts, uncles, cousins, grandparents. In the corner on a pedestal stood a statue of Jesus bleeding profusely. Vigil candles in glass cups were at the Savior’s feet. They were a vital part of the household, participating in all that was vital and meaningful, for my mother lit the candles whenever a relative died, or when someone got sick, or when something of value was lost, or when lightning came close to the sky.
Dimly I saw a stack of clothing on the sofa. The stuff looked familiar, like images in an old photograph.
“What’s all this?”
“Your work clothes.”
“ Work clothes? What kind of work?”
“Mountain work.” She hid her face.
“No mountains for me.”
“Think about it. Make up your own mind.”
“No mountains.”
I studied the clothes, tumbled the garments about. God knew where she had dug them out, some trunk in the hot, stuffy attic where everything eventually mummified—jeans, shirts, a pair of boots, even my baseball sweater with the big SE emblazoned on the chest. The idea that even my baby clothes might be carefully preserved somewhere made me shudder. There was something artful about those resurrected garments, a planned arrangement, a spider setting a trap, and I the victim. She sensed my thought and slipped into the kitchen. I found her at the stove, stirring things inside pots. She had prepared a great deal of food.
“Who’s going to eat all this?”
“Everybody.”
“You invited everybody.”
“No, but they’ll come anyway.”
I dropped into a chair at the kitchen table. She was there right away with a bottle of wine from the refrigerator and a chilled glass. I knew the wine. It had to be the new wine from the vines of Angelo Musso’s vineyard, easily the most important commodity in the house, for without it my father would quickly dry up and fade away.
“Mama, what’s this about a divorce?”
“What divorce?”
“You know what divorce. Why do you think I’m here?”
She laughed. “Just talk. We’re Catholics, we can’t divorce. Didn’t you know that?”
“Mario said he kicked you, choked you. You had to have him arrested.”
“Mario did it. Papa didn’t mean it. He didn’t do it on purpose.” She began slicing bread.
“How can he kick you, choke you, but not on purpose?”
“He didn’t mean it. He was only playing.”
“So he went to jail.”
“For a half hour. It was nothing.”
“What about the lipstick on his underwear?”
“It was jelly.”
“I thought it was jelly.”
“Cherry jelly. On his pancakes. He spilled some on his lap.”
“And for that you accuse him of infidelity?”
“So I was wrong, for once.” She heaved a big sigh. “How many times have I been right the last fifty years?”
I took her hand and smoothed the dry, soft skin.
“You don’t have to worry about things like that anymore. He’s not young anymore. The fire’s out.”
“He don’t need a fire. He keeps going without it.”
“In his mind, that’s all.”
“It’s dirty,” she said. “It’s a sin.”
She busied herself with the dinner, checking the eggplant in the oven, the gnocchi warming in a black iron pot, the veal bubbling in Marsala.
“I couldn’t find any heavy socks. You’ll need them up there. It may snow, this time of the year.”
“I’m not going ‘up there.’”
“Not even this last time, for your father?”
“I’m working. I can’t leave my book.”
That sent her suddenly out of the room toward the bedroom, where I
“At the Roma.”
“You had a fight?”
“Argument.”
“You’re not going to the mountains?” There was concern in her voice.
“You knew about that?”
We were still talking through the screen door.
“He said he was going to ask you.”
“He asked. I said, no chance.”
I stepped into the hot, small parlor that was overpowered by the spices from the kitchen. That parlor! It was hellishly hot. A morgue. Walls bedecked with pictures of the dead, aunts, uncles, cousins, grandparents. In the corner on a pedestal stood a statue of Jesus bleeding profusely. Vigil candles in glass cups were at the Savior’s feet. They were a vital part of the household, participating in all that was vital and meaningful, for my mother lit the candles whenever a relative died, or when someone got sick, or when something of value was lost, or when lightning came close to the sky.
Dimly I saw a stack of clothing on the sofa. The stuff looked familiar, like images in an old photograph.
“What’s all this?”
“Your work clothes.”
“ Work clothes? What kind of work?”
“Mountain work.” She hid her face.
“No mountains for me.”
“Think about it. Make up your own mind.”
“No mountains.”
I studied the clothes, tumbled the garments about. God knew where she had dug them out, some trunk in the hot, stuffy attic where everything eventually mummified—jeans, shirts, a pair of boots, even my baseball sweater with the big SE emblazoned on the chest. The idea that even my baby clothes might be carefully preserved somewhere made me shudder. There was something artful about those resurrected garments, a planned arrangement, a spider setting a trap, and I the victim. She sensed my thought and slipped into the kitchen. I found her at the stove, stirring things inside pots. She had prepared a great deal of food.
“Who’s going to eat all this?”
“Everybody.”
“You invited everybody.”
“No, but they’ll come anyway.”
I dropped into a chair at the kitchen table. She was there right away with a bottle of wine from the refrigerator and a chilled glass. I knew the wine. It had to be the new wine from the vines of Angelo Musso’s vineyard, easily the most important commodity in the house, for without it my father would quickly dry up and fade away.
“Mama, what’s this about a divorce?”
“What divorce?”
“You know what divorce. Why do you think I’m here?”
She laughed. “Just talk. We’re Catholics, we can’t divorce. Didn’t you know that?”
“Mario said he kicked you, choked you. You had to have him arrested.”
“Mario did it. Papa didn’t mean it. He didn’t do it on purpose.” She began slicing bread.
“How can he kick you, choke you, but not on purpose?”
“He didn’t mean it. He was only playing.”
“So he went to jail.”
“For a half hour. It was nothing.”
“What about the lipstick on his underwear?”
“It was jelly.”
“I thought it was jelly.”
“Cherry jelly. On his pancakes. He spilled some on his lap.”
“And for that you accuse him of infidelity?”
“So I was wrong, for once.” She heaved a big sigh. “How many times have I been right the last fifty years?”
I took her hand and smoothed the dry, soft skin.
“You don’t have to worry about things like that anymore. He’s not young anymore. The fire’s out.”
“He don’t need a fire. He keeps going without it.”
“In his mind, that’s all.”
“It’s dirty,” she said. “It’s a sin.”
She busied herself with the dinner, checking the eggplant in the oven, the gnocchi warming in a black iron pot, the veal bubbling in Marsala.
“I couldn’t find any heavy socks. You’ll need them up there. It may snow, this time of the year.”
“I’m not going ‘up there.’”
“Not even this last time, for your father?”
“I’m working. I can’t leave my book.”
That sent her suddenly out of the room toward the bedroom, where I
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